


Portraits

by theladybeatrice



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Spoilers for Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladybeatrice/pseuds/theladybeatrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A generous gift from King Louis has everyone thinking about the meaning of family.</p><p>d’Artagnan would have liked to have had family portraits.  In Gascony, he had not known any farmer’s family who had the coin to invest in commissioning a painting.  There were a few images in the church, but of Biblical scenes, not of people he recognized.  The image of d’Artagnan’s mother existed only his memories, and now barely at that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portraits

**Author's Note:**

> Now that everyone carries a camera in their pocket, pictures of loved ones are easily come by. The promo pic of the boys with Treville made me think how precious a family portrait would have been in the 17th century. I know very little about the process involved in creating such a portrait in that day and age, so please forgive any inaccuracies. Also, I'm sure the epilogue blatantly violates both actual history and the show's cannon, but it was an idea that took hold of me anyway.

Treville was stunned that the king had actually followed through on this particular whim. The crate sat open on his desk, recently delivered from the palace. Amidst the straw packing material lay five paintings, each wrapped in burlap for protection during travel. He had opened the first, presumably his, just to be sure. What he saw pleased his eyes and warmed his heart.

The king had been in a particularly joyous mood that day, all those months ago. When Treville arrived at the palace, he could see the monarch through the double glass doors perched high atop a wooden contraption he supposed was to represent a horse. Treville left his Inseparables in the garden at parade rest outside the doors. Inside, he delivered his report to the king while Louis posed for yet another portrait to be painted. Bored, King Louis turned to the view of the gardens only to spy his favorite guards lined up nearby. With a sudden fit of inspiration, he looked to their captain.

“Treville, I think we need a portrait of the Musketeers, something to preserve for posterity. It can be a gift for the Queen; you know how much she admires the regiment.” 

“Yes, your majesty,” Treville replied, positive that this was going nowhere. Surely, more pressing matters would appear before Louis could remember the idea. He was not expecting the king to slide down from that ridiculous contraption and immediately bundle the painter out through the doors towards his men. 

“You too, Treville, right in the center!” the King insisted. 

“Your majesty,” Treville began, “these men have demands on their time. With due respect, posing for a portrait might not be the best idea right now.” 

“Nonsense, it’s a perfect day for a portrait. Look at the sunlight! The gardens are in bloom! And the Queen will be so pleased!”

Treville suspected that was the real reason: King Louis wanted to impress his wife with his thoughtfulness. Treville had no earthly idea how to refuse. 

Moments later, the artist had prepared a new canvas and began arranging them while Louis looked on with delight. Treville was indeed in the center, looking straight ahead, the picture of a dutiful soldier. Porthos and Aramis were placed at an angle just behind his right shoulder, Athos on his left. d’Artagnan seemed a little out of place, facing the opposite direction from Athos, but touching his mentor’s shoulder. The artist said something about tension and brooked no argument. They stood there for seemingly hours, long after the King had deserted them for more interesting pursuits. While none of them were strangers to standing on parade, usually there were nobles to watch over, suspects to inspect, and the prospect of something, anything, happening. Instead, they had only the silent subtle movement of the artist’s brushes and their own reflections to stare at in the glass doors. 

When the sun dipped below the trees, the light faded quickly, and the artist tried telling them to return in the morning. Treville wasn’t having it. One day was bad enough; a second was not going to happen. After one of the hardest days of standing still he could remember, Treville dismissed his men directly from the palace and hoped that the King would be satisfied. Indeed, that had been the end of it, until yesterday.

Treville reported to the palace as ordered to find King Louis inspecting two large paintings on easels. The first was of Louis himself, perched high upon a prancing white steed that Treville was sure had no relationship to the horses actually housed in the royal stables. Likely, that horse was as fanciful as the elaborate uniform and jeweled sword the painted king was brandishing. The second painting was much more realistic, and to Treville’s astonishment, featured him. Treville’s own face stared out from the canvas, surrounded by his men. The three-quarter portrait was as large as the surface of a dinner table. All five of them were recognizable. Aramis’ curls, Porthos’ scar, Athos’ scowl, and d’Artagnan’s black hair undisturbed by any hat lined up across the canvas. To Treville’s approval, even the weapons at their waists were rendered accurately. 

“What do you think, Treville?” the King inquired. “Good enough to grace her majesty’s chambers? I think it will give her a sense of safety, as if you and your men will always be watching over her.” No doubt that Louis thought it was a benevolent gesture, rather than the imposing intrusion Treville considered it might be. But Treville was in no position to question the monarch’s impulses towards his wife. 

“It’s a shame, your majesty, that my men won’t be able to see it. Visiting the Queen’s chambers would hardly be appropriate.”

“Ah, I’ve thought of everything, you see. I had copies made, smaller ones, a painting for you and each of your men. They will be delivered to your garrison immediately, with my compliments.” 

“You are too generous, your majesty.” Treville wondered if the quality of the copies would live up to the original. In all likelihood, the artist’s assistant, or even a student, would have painted the copies. Given that they had only posed once, the assistant would copy the original, and detail would always be lost. 

However, when Treville returned to his office and opened the crate, a delighted smile crossed his face. He lifted the top painting from the crate and removed the burlap. Already framed, the portrait was no bigger than the papers stacked on his desk. Nevertheless, the quality was impeccable. Treville was impressed. His majesty must have gone to considerable expense to provide such a gift. Perhaps their recent exploits protecting the queen from Gallagher had inspired Louis. 

Treville considered that hanging his painting in the office was not the best idea. He would rather not have the rest of the regiment staring at it while being taken to task at his desk. Instead, the portrait found a home in the records room, next to the enormous armoire housing the reports of each Musketeer mission. What better place to have a visual record of his best men? 

*******

Athos grew up surrounded by portraits of his ancestors, stern looking people who seemed to expect that the next generation had best live up to their example. He remembered clearly when he and Thomas had sat for their portraits, neither comfortable under the artist’s scrutiny. Athos felt ridiculous; he had done nothing to deserve the honor but for being born first. Thomas simply wanted to escape the house to carouse with his friends. As a result, neither portrait was a good representation of either of them. Athos felt slightly guilty that the image in his mind of Thomas had been devolving into the portrait’s face rather than his memories of the actual Thomas. Perhaps he saw the portrait’s face as innocuous and the one of his remembered brother as always sneering at him, ridiculing him for his sense of responsibility. Thomas never wanted to be the heir. He couldn’t stand the accountability. He would much rather be the public favorite, buying his comrades wine, debauchery in the offing. Such a face did not belong in a portrait. 

Athos had once adored the portrait of Anne, hanging just round the corner from his own, with Thomas between them (how fitting that Thomas came between them). Even from the portrait, her eyes seemed to seek him out and hold Athos captivated. Those eyes had driven him to shear his sword through the canvas, creating a flap to cover her face. If only her memory could be cut from his heart as easily. Now though, both portraits, of Anne and Thomas, and countless others of his ancestors, were nothing but ash. Anne herself burned them to the ground, but she hadn’t been able to wipe them from Athos’ mind.

This new portrait, however, was real and solid in his hands, smaller and more colorful than any he had seen before. The faces were beloved, not smiling, but not so stern either. And Athos could see the hints of joy in them. Treville’s stance suggested the pride he held in his men. Porthos towered over him, always protective of his brothers. Aramis stood just slightly apart, his near constant movement seemingly captured in the still painting. On Athos’ right, d’Artagnan faced outward, but still touching Athos, shoulder to elbow, connected. Even though the artist had placed d’Artagnan in position, it was d’Artagnan who kept that contact. Athos could clearly see that there was no hint on his own face that told how important such a simple gesture had become to him. d’Artagnan had no compunction about touching him, had never been embarrassed or ashamed. He had never been forced to hug him by insistent parents as Thomas had (however reluctantly). He never forced his hand in scorn as Anne had done. d’Artagnan’s simple kindness had scaled the walls Athos had built around himself, and now Athos had lasting proof of such a connection. This portrait would be cherished.

*******

d’Artagnan would have liked to have had family portraits. In Gascony, he had not known any farmer’s family who had the coin to invest in commissioning a painting. There were a few images in the church, but of Biblical scenes, not of people he recognized. The image of d’Artagnan’s mother existed only his memories, and now barely at that. Such a child when she died, d’Artagnan took up the habit of forcing himself to remember her face, her voice, her touch. He made it a regular ritual, and now, those forced memories were the only ones he could keep. He had tried as well to spend purposeful time remembering his father. It was easier to call him to mind, having spent so many more years with him. But in the months since his death, d’Artagnan had experienced such upheaval that he hadn’t taken the time to cultivate the ritual. He wondered guiltily if he ever would. 

Only when they sheltered at Athos’ chateau had d’Artagnan ever actually seen family portraits. The images of Athos’ ancestors fascinated d’Artagnan, but none more so than those of Athos alongside Thomas. He could clearly recognize the younger Athos, though he did not think that the nameless artist had captured the intense vitality he could see in the man himself. However, the artist had managed to convey the family resemblance between the young men. d’Artagnan recognized the crinkles around Thomas’ eyes that also appeared on the rare times Athos smiled. Because Athos allowed them so sparingly, they had grown in d’Artagnan’s estimation to be a cherished gift. He had thought that the portrait of Athos’ brother would be a comfort to Athos, but now it was a memory as well. 

The portrait Treville placed in his hands was the first he had ever touched, and he did so with reverence. While the men depicted there may not have been his blood relations, this was clearly a family portrait. As children, people are born into their families; as adults, people choose their families. d’Artagnan’s chosen family had chosen him. They could have easily sent him on his way, an irritant demanding attention. Instead, to a man, they had taken him in and allowed him to thrive. Each had shared his experience with him. d’Artagnan could not help but be grateful, but in his heart, he saw them as more than mentors or friends. The Musketeers in general were fond of the term “brother” and while d’Artagnan was loyal to every man in the regiment, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos were truly family. They had seen the worst of him and still remained. Injury, incompetence, and inexperience had not driven them away from him. The portrait was precious, he knew, but the family was all the more so. 

*******

Porthos was dumbfounded at the gift the king had chosen to bestow. Porthos had never even laid eyes on a painting until he had become a Musketeer. Such things were not typical in the Court of Miracles. Even the church that Porthos had occasionally visited there was so simple as to remain undecorated. Only on duty at the palace had Porthos been witness to the swirls of paint that stirred something greater in the soul. He was still fascinated by how, upon looking closely, he could see the tiny lines created by the tiny hairs of an artist’s brush; then, how stepping back brought an entirely new scene into focus. Now, he held in his hands an actual painting, of himself and his brothers, which belonged to him. 

Porthos had forgotten about that day so many months ago when the King ordered them in place. He had been so bored. Treville’s presence had put a damper on their usual bantering. Facing the glass doors, Porthos had a rare opportunity to examine their reflection. Although he often saw himself in a random mirror, the chance to see himself in his brothers’ company did not come often. He knew was the tallest of the group, but in the glass he could clearly see the difference. He chuckled a bit to notice that Athos, the shortest, compensated a bit with the height of his hat, but still didn’t even measure up to d’Artagnan. He remembered trying to continue that chuckle by making faces whenever the artist glanced down to the canvas. Athos had been the first to notice in their reflection, sending him a quirk of the eyebrow. Porthos was surprised to see that the eyebrow didn’t mean Stop that immediately but instead a fond Don’t make me laugh or I will have to hurt you. Athos’ look is what really made Aramis crack. He dipped his head, let his hat brim hide the giggle, and earned a stern reprimand from the artist. Treville slid his eyes to Aramis’ reflection adding his own reproof. Porthos, for his part, rearranged himself into the very picture of innocence. His eyes, though, met Aramis’ in the glass and sparkled.

Porthos had also forgotten the length of time that stretched out since that day. d’Artagnan hadn’t even earned his commission then; there was no pauldron at his shoulder. How much turmoil had passed since then; Lebarge, the Queen, Milady and countless smaller escapades had only served to fortify the bond between brothers. Growing up, Porthos never imagined what such a bond could mean. People had flowed in and out of his life as quickly as a mark turning down a wrong corner. Aramis and Athos changed that about Porthos. They remained solid and steadfast. When d’Artagnan joined them, he didn’t leave either, and Porthos rarely thought about d’Artagnan not having been there. They were all essential to him as breathing, and without them, Porthos didn’t expect he would be breathing at all. 

*******

Aramis thrived on pleasure. The lilt of a melody, the curve of a woman, the light of a painting were all equally seductive for him. The many hours he had spent through his life sitting in a church had often been spent contemplating the artwork, wondering how much had been the willful choice of the artist versus divine inspiration. Portraits of saints and sinners alike whispered their stories to him from the walls. Some were meant to inspire greatness, others fear. Aramis often wondered if understood correctly which were which. 

Now he held a portrait in his hands. It was not far removed, high on a church wall, but tangible and tactile. He could see its secrets, but still he wondered, should he be inspired or fearful? 

His brothers stared out from the portrait, his brothers. He knew their history, had lived most of it. He also knew most of their secrets, but Aramis was not foolish enough to believe he knew all of their secrets. After all, there were still a few tiny parts of himself that he had kept to himself. Surely, his brothers had done the same. So did such secrets make them saints or sinners?

Porthos was surely a saint, Aramis thought. Of course, he wasn’t infallible, but Porthos was, and always would be, motivated by a desire to make all things better. His own miserable childhood (of which Aramis was sure there were many secrets) drove him to spare others such depths. His easy smile and plain wisdom never failed to bring a lightness to those around him. Aramis felt a surge of satisfaction in remembering how the artist had placed him next to Porthos, as it should be. Aramis would not be anywhere were it not for Porthos. 

d’Artagnan was too young to be saint, Aramis considered. Likely he was too much of a hothead as well, but then again, d’Artagnan’s passionate fits of anger were typically generated on behalf of others. Like Porthos, he deeply wanted to make things better. The Gascon was motivated to bring justice to those from whom it had been denied, and that desire had inspired all of them. After years of soldiering, they could have easily become cynical about the high-mindedness of any given mission. d’Artagnan had given back to them a sense of certainty that a higher purpose did exist in their everyday lives. How could anything be more divine than that?

On the surface, what could be more laughable than the idea of Athos as a saint? The man himself would surely scoff at the description. No, he had a litany of sins to weigh him down. Was he the cautionary tale, a life to be avoided in favor of the more positive examples around him? Athos would almost certainly say so. However, years of buoying Athos’ spirits had made Aramis instinctively pull on the less obvious secrets of his brother’s soul. He was a man who loved deeply, though unlike Aramis or Porthos, he did not allow those feelings to show on the surface. Instead, his love flowed through his actions. Every time that he planned a mission, he scrutinized each aspect, keeping all of them as safe as possible, playing to their strengths, minimizing their weaknesses. He often kept watch through the night longer than he allowed the others to do so. He insured they each had what they needed, whether it was food, wine, or even time to relax and be themselves. Over the years, he had trained them in all aspects of soldiering, not content to let them claim experience over new knowledge, and was now lending his expertise to d’Artagnan. He led them because he loved them. Athos’ inclination toward sainthood might be the most hidden secret of all.

As for himself, Aramis saw no hint of being a saint. He hadn’t even been able to live up to the priesthood, and as he had told Athos, he was better at dispatching people to hell. Though he had spent a good deal of his life focused on God, religion was somewhat more problematic. Any given priest would surely condemn him for his profession, and the killing required, as well as for his ardent vocation, and the affection he sought so willingly. He simply saw that no barriers need exist when pleasure could be readily shared. 

However, the portrait in his hands was not intended for any church. No supplicant would ever look up at it and try to take sustenance from it. Treville had said that the original was designed as a gift for the Queen, to be hung in her chambers as a symbol of her unwavering support for the regiment. Then the significance hit him. Anne would have his portrait, forever more, in her chambers. While he might not be there to share his love with her, and with their child, his image might remind her of its existence. Perhaps one day, when the child was grown, she could point to Aramis’ image and tell their progeny their greatest secret. He was a sinner, surely, but he hoped that one day his son would forgive the man in the portrait. 

******

 **Epilogue**  
Bunched together, the group of tourists bustled through the rooms of the palace into what had once been the Queen’s chambers. As in every room on the public tour, the guide paused near a significant relic, explaining in broad detail why such a piece of furniture, or architecture, or artwork was notable. Here, she positioned herself at the corner of a portrait. The painting itself was about the size of a tabletop. Etienne noticed that it depicted not one person, or even a couple, but five men, obviously of a military bearing. 

The guide pointed out the unusual nature of the large group. It dated to the early 1600’s, and had been a gift to Queen Anne from her husband, Louis XIII. Presumably, it had always hung on this wall undisturbed. Intending to convey reverence, the guide declared that the portrait was the earliest known visual record of the King’s Musketeers. The regiment had been place several years when the painting was created. The man in the center was known to be Captain Armand Treville as was noted on the back of the canvas. The other men were not named, but some clues were available. The man on the far right was not wearing the same insignia as the others, suggesting he was not of the same rank. A review of available records had shown that a Charles d’Artagnan was often listed in the king’s guard some months before receiving an official commission from the king. Identities for the other faces were less clear. However, the guide continued, the Comte de la Fere was likely among the other three. A smaller copy of the same portrait was hanging in the historic chateau at la Fere, and the Comte named Olivier was indeed a member of the Musketeers. No other portrait of Olivier existed, so his exact likeness was a bit of a mystery.

Names of the remaining two were thought to be Porthos du Vallon and Rene Aramis d’Herblay, based upon how often these men were listed in mission records next to the Comte and d’Artagnan. However, it could not be confirmed which image matched which name. 

Etienne perked up at the mention of the name “Aramis.” It was unusual, without a doubt, and one that had come down through his family for ages. It was his own grandfather’s name, and he was certain at least two of his cousins carried it as a middle name. No one was quite sure when it had first been used, but an examination of genealogy showed that it had been in use for centuries. 

Etienne’s attention was drawn to the man on the far left, with sharp features and wild curls gathering around the brim of his hat. He looked oddly familiar. Etienne had long heard the family legend that his history stretched back to a queen of France, presumably Anne of Austria. Successive generations of being descended through younger sons had long lost the family’s connection to the aristocracy, but the legend endured. As a child, he had never questioned the story, but recently he had begun to wonder why the legend referred to the queen and not the king. He had researched pictures of both Louis and Anne, and fancied that he could see similarities to Anne in his own mother, particularly around the eyes. But Louis XIII looked as remote as any other figure from history. 

As the tour group shuffled to the other side of the room, Etienne stepped closer to the painting, careful not lean over the velvet rope stretched about the perimeter of the room. Something about the man on the left suggested Etienne’s grandfather. The wild curls, the sharp nose, the angle of the chin, or maybe it was the quirk of the eyebrow, but something there was definitely familiar. He felt an odd sensation that something divine was niggling at the corners of his soul. 

Was it possible that this man was the family association to the Queen? Why would a queen have a portrait of soldiers in her own chambers? Wouldn’t it be better suited to the armory? There must have been some connection, an emotional connection, between the Queen and the men in this portrait. Perhaps, Etienne thought, he was seeing his own ancestor. Perhaps Queen Anne had loved this man, and hid his likeness from her husband in a portrait of the group. Perhaps Etienne was letting his imagination run away with him. But it certainly made for a romantic story, and Etienne wondered if he could ever unwrap the secret.


End file.
